Work Text:
When it comes to describing Hannah, perhaps the best way he can possibly capture her—is to call her for what she was. The girl was a violent piece of poetry. There would never be another prose like her.
In his mind, she is still alive.
She’s incredibly good at avoiding him, but still, alive.
Clay knows it’s not the objective truth.
The Dead Girl, they name her, ringing the dreadful title as if it was a ghost story from the 80s.
He reports it anonymously to the school’s email sometimes. Not that he doesn’t understand why name-dropping Hannah Baker isn’t the best idea in these corridors, but she had a name and a last name and a dead girl could be anyone, but not anyone could have been her. He clicks out of reality. The browser tab asks if he is still there.
“Are you with us, Clay?”
Jessica asks from the driver seat and he gives her a nod, and the sun is in his eyes and his shirt feels a little too itchy on the neckline. She wants to check in again if he would like some medicated help. She knows a good doctor for these kinds of things anyway. But no, he’s fine and yes, maybe he needs a special kind of help. No rational result ever really comes up when he asks for what to do with a dead girl walking.
Hannah is not haunting him. She can’t be that glimpse of light in the backview mirror or the sudden breeze by his hands, because he’s an atheist and she’s worse than his own beliefs. Besides, she wanted to see New York. Clay would never be able to leave this town.
He traces the seams of the car seat and he is still thinking about the email, then he thinks about burning his laptop again for that one too many times he has made her image dirty, even accidentally. He has previously asked if Justin wanted his hand-me-down, but the problem is, of course, it wouldn’t be fair. Nothing in life is fair, Hannah would say, her fingers smeared with melted butter and he can no longer think about popcorn without wanting to vomit.
Jessica stops at a red light.
“Do you need the window down?”
People don’t ask you that kind of thing when you are fine, when your body language is normal enough to not cause concern despite being absolutely quiet. He feels caught. Ashamed. He swallows twice.
“I’m okay.”
Clay always looks away quickly, as if his eyes would see double if he made eye contact with her from the reflective surface. They need to be at court soon anyway. Maybe he can freshen up there. Hannah would probably tell him to lean into the drapey look more, she would try to tousle his hair for the dramatics. For a moment, Clay almost falls into that manic haze of her voice in his ears, the giggles he almost forgets.
He feels stupid and apologetic.
He can’t even keep himself together on the way to her fucking trial.